The Dead Shall Not Rest

by Tessa Harris

  His memory flashed to the gaping wound in the young man’s throat and the lack of blood around the lip of the incision. “Franklin!” he cried, picking up the rat and dropping him back in his pocket. “Why did I not see this before?”

  Taking the lantern he dashed downstairs and into his laboratory. He needed to find the phial of bloodied water he had taken from the pitcher in Cappelli’s room. There it was, on the shelf, just as he had left it. Carefully he uncorked the ampule and dipped a litmus paper into the cloudy solution. In a few seconds he had the result he had suspected. The paper had reddened, denoting the presence of potassium alum in the water. Whoever had sliced the castrato’s throat so meticulously and precisely could probably also give a gentleman a very good shave.

  Next he delved into his bag and brought out the sample jar and the glass phial that held the long black hair. Using his tweezers he teased the strand out and held it up to the candle. It was straight and he guessed it was at least twenty inches long. It must belong to Marie, but it did not incriminate her. After all, she would have made Cappelli’s bed. He put it to one side. The contents of the jar would be much more interesting. He lit a lantern, then emptied out the dust onto a large piece of parchment. Small fragments, their identities were too tiny to discern with the naked eye, presented themselves to him. There would be particles of dead skin, silk threads, cotton fibers, splinters of untreated wood, dead insects and . . . What was this? Another hair. Another black hair. Only this one was short. It measured no more than four inches in length. Thomas reached for a glass slide and placed the strand onto it. Moving the lantern next to his microscope, he looked through it. He could see the flat, overlapping tiles of the shaft clearly. He reached for the other strand of hair and placed it carefully on the same slide. They looked identical, until he came to the ends. Gently pulling at the longer strand, like a thread of cotton, he examined the cortex. He could see it had fallen out at the club-shaped root and the end was split longitudinally three ways. When he looked at the other strand, however, it was clear that it had been cut at one end with scissors. It was clean and sharp, not simply broken off at a weak point from the length. The horny cells from both strands appeared almost identical in nearly every respect apart from the fact that the shorter one had been sliced neatly at the end. The thought suddenly occurred to him. It was from a different head.

  Returning to the pile of dust once more, he used the tweezers to search for any more hair. And yes. What was this? Another one. Very short and coarser than the others. Gently he lifted it onto another slide and examined it under the microscope. This one was also dark, but its physiological makeup was entirely different. The cortex had a much wider circumference. A whisker, perhaps?

  Thomas rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the samples again. He had once read that a person lost up to one hundred head hairs a day. Could these two hold the key to a murder?

  Chapter 50

  Armed with what could be new, crucial evidence, Thomas rode out to Earls Court the following morning to question Dr. Hunter further. He arrived at the premises to find the drawbridge up, but just as he was about to ring the great bell for attention a cart pulled up. It was carrying crates of livestock, squawking chickens and ducks, and there was one containing a mangy mongrel. It regarded him dolefully. He knew its fate and it sickened him.

  When the drawbridge was lowered and the cart passed through, Thomas followed on behind and took the path, unchallenged, to the underground laboratory. Holding his ear to the door, he could hear movement inside. He knocked and waited. There was no reply, so he opened it and entered. A sickly, cloying smell hung in the still air. He glanced over at the copper in the corner. The doors were open. Something had been recently boiled.

  Down at the far end of the room, shrouded in the shadows, he saw Hunter busying himself, walking to and fro and chuntering, seemingly to himself.

  “Dr. Hunter,” Thomas called.

  The anatomist stopped dead and peered ahead of him, shielding his eyes against the sunlight splaying out from the open door.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  “Dr. Silkstone. I need to talk with you.”

  There was a short pause. Thomas could see him fumbling for a moment in the shadows as he moved closer toward him.

  “Stay there, Dr. Silkstone. I shall be with you shortly,” he barked.

  Thomas wondered what hapless specimen had fallen prey to his eager scalpel now. He ventured a little farther into the laboratory.

  “I bring news, sir,” began Thomas as the old anatomist started to walk toward him, wiping his hands on a cloth. He seemed a little out of breath.

  “I was not expecting visitors, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, drawing up alongside the doctor. “I have much work to do.”

  Thomas saw the spatters of dried blood on his shirt and felt duly chastised. “Forgive me, but what I have to tell you is of great importance.”

  “Well?”

  “First of all, I regret to say that Giles Carrington is dead.” To Thomas’s surprise Hunter’s expression did not change. He had expected to see some flicker of shock on the anatomist’s face, but there was nothing, not even a question, so Thomas elucidated. “He died while trying to evade arrest. He confessed to planting the larynx in your storeroom.”

  “And second?”

  Thomas noticed Hunter was wiping his hands with irrational fervor now.

  “And second, I have found traces of potassium alum around the wound of the castrato. I believe whoever carried out the removal of the larynx could well have a connection with the barber’s trade.”

  For the first time during the course of the conversation Hunter seemed to digest the information that Thomas had just relayed. “Then I’m sure you and Sir Peregrine will be able to track the culprit down and prove his guilt with your new methods, Dr. Silkstone,” he said. “But I am afraid I really must get on. Please show yourself out.” His lips lifted in a stilted smile and he turned quickly, heading back toward the gloom of the far corners of his laboratory.

  Thomas, however, was not satisfied. There were so many questions he needed to ask him. He began walking quickly behind the anatomist. “Sir, please,” he called, now in the farthest corner of the room where the light was at its weakest.

  Realizing he was being followed, Hunter turned again quickly. “Be gone, sir,” he snapped. “Go away.” But it was too late. His eyes now adjusted to the murky gloom, Thomas could see what Hunter did not want him, or anyone else, to see. Hanging from a long rope suspended from the ceiling was a skeleton: a human skeleton measuring more than eight feet tall.

  Thomas gasped in horror. Eyes wide, he stared at the grotesque image before him as the grim reality of what he could see dawned on him. “No!” he cried. “But . . .”

  Hunter smiled nervously. “You and your cronies must admit defeat, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.

  “Then what was in the coffin?” asked Thomas, his head still reeling from the shock.

  “Paving stones. The undertaker swapped the coffin when those Irish buffoons rested for the night.”

  Thomas steadied himself on a nearby table. “How could you have known? We planned it all so carefully,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Hunter let out a mocking laugh. “Och! ’Tis simple. You were betrayed, Dr. Silkstone.”

  Thomas eyed him incredulously. “Betrayed? By whom?”

  “By me, my dear Thomas,” came a familiar voice from out of the shadows.

  Count Josef Boruwlaski stood looking up at the young doctor, his tiny face set in a characteristic smile.

  “You! How could you?” cried Thomas.

  “Och! I am sure the count found it rather easy,” interjected Hunter. “I asked him some years ago if he would donate his body to me on his death. For some strange reason he declined, but he offered me a much more interesting proposition.”

  Thomas looked at the little man askance. “So you betrayed Charles Byrne to save your own skin?”

  The count shru
gged. “This way only my portrait and not my skeleton will be hung in Dr. Hunter’s collection for all to see.”

  Every nerve ending in Thomas’s body tingled with shock. Such unimaginable betrayal left him feeling sick, and his eyes began to fill with tears. He looked over to Charles’s skeleton as it dangled helplessly in the air, like a criminal on the end of a rope. Just as his father had been wrongly executed and his body dissected, so, too, was his son being cruelly humiliated in death.

  It was then that Thomas recalled the count’s efforts to help Charles gain a posthumous pardon for his father. He turned to Boruwlaski. “And what of the pardon? The lawyer?”

  The little man shook his head. “There was never any pardon, Thomas. Marchant was working for us.” He paused, his squat finger pointing in the air. “But, of course, Charles did ask King George in person for one. So one never knows.”

  Thomas slumped into a nearby chair, his head in his hands, as if the past few months had all been a dream to him and now he was waking to a nightmare. He looked up, his eyes playing on the skeleton once more. He could see the steel pins at each joint where Hunter had pieced the limbs together after butchering the corpse. The bones were yellowed, too. Thomas could tell they had been bleached in a hurry, so desperate was Hunter to land his prey.

  “How could you? How could you?” he muttered, not expecting and not hearing a reply.

  Now in death, as in life, Charles Byrne would be an object of morbid curiosity: a freak of nature, a monstrous mutation. Deprived of a decent burial, his only legacy was to remain as an exhibit for all eternity, denied even the right for his own bones to return to dust without the intrusion of the knife and the boiling vat.

  “I trust you will say nothing of what you have seen here,” said Hunter.

  Thomas regarded him with disdain. “So that you are not besieged by others of your kind who would steal the bones? Or because decent people would mob you?”

  The anatomist nodded. “Both,” he replied curtly.

  “I will say nothing,” sneered Thomas. “But not to protect you, or you, Count. I will say nothing to protect those who loved and cared for Mr. Byrne.” He thought of Lydia and Emily and how such betrayal would be too much for them both to bear.

  Slowly he rose and took one last, lingering look at Charles’s skeleton. “Rest in peace, my friend,” he whispered, and he turned and walked away, his own heart breaking with every step.

  Chapter 51

  It was no longer to the dead, but to the living that Thomas knew he must now turn his full attention. Time was fast running out if he was to save Leonardo Moreno from his undeserved appointment at the gallows.

  It was shortly before noon when he reached Newgate Prison. The familiar stench, as vile as any dissecting room on a hot day, assailed his nostrils as soon as he entered the wealthier prisoners’ wing. An ill-visaged jailer led him down the corridor to the small cell and let him inside. A shaft of sunlight had pierced the narrow window high up in the wall, and the Tuscan, hunched on his pallet, was watching dust motes dance like moths in the beam. This is a good sign, thought Thomas. He is still trying to connect with the outside world. He has not given up all hope. But his optimism was short-lived.

  “Signor Moreno, how fare you?” he greeted him.

  The prisoner tried to rise, wincing in agony as he pulled himself forward. But the effort seemed too much for him. The past month of incarceration had put twenty years on him. His joints were clearly stiff as starch and his muscles were wasting away.

  “Please, stay where you are, sir,” urged Thomas. He could not bear to watch such painful exertions. Although the count had kept him updated on the Tuscan’s state of mind and body, the young doctor was still shocked by the prisoner’s rapid deterioration. Moreno lifted his head. Even his once-lustrous lashes seemed scant and crusted with pus, and his eyes were glazed and listless. Worse still, Thomas could tell they were devoid of hope. The prisoner remained silent.

  The young doctor took a chair from the corner of the cell and sat by his patient. “I am come to examine you, Signor Moreno,” he said softly, taking him by the hand and feeling for his pulse. It was weak, but not worryingly so.

  Next Thomas bade him lie down so that he could inspect his torso. Lifting the soiled shirt, he could see that the wounds were healing well. He ran his fingers over the rib cage. Moreno stifled a cry, but Thomas was satisfied the bones were knitting, although still tender to the touch.

  The next area for examination was more delicate. “Will you permit me to look at your other wound, sir?” inquired Thomas tactfully.

  Moreno nodded submissively and turned over slowly. The young doctor was swift and efficient in his examination and, mercifully, pronounced the wound completely healed. Although suffering from the deprivations of the cold and damp and a diet deficient in most nutrients, the Tuscan’s bodily health was not as bad as Thomas had feared. It was his mind that was in need of healing.

  The doctor sat back in his chair, leaving Moreno lying prone, staring up at the stone ceiling. “You are doing well, sir,” he said encouragingly.

  He saw the Tuscan’s lips flicker in an ironic smile. “I do not see that as a reason for cheer,” he replied.

  “How so?” Thomas frowned.

  “I would sooner have died of my wounds than suffer the public indignity of the gallows, Dr. Silkstone.”

  The young doctor shook his head and leaned nearer the pallet. “I am edging closer to finding the real killer, signor,” he said.

  The Tuscan turned his head. “You are?”

  Thomas nodded. “Yes, but I need to ask you some personal questions.”

  “Go ahead. I have nothing to lose,” he replied, raising his arm in a laconic wave. “You are already privy to my darkest secrets, Dr. Silkstone.”

  “Did you or Signor Cappelli ever have the need to shave, sir?”

  Moreno raised an eyebrow. “No, sir. I have never grown facial hair and Cappelli’s skin—” He broke off suddenly and swallowed hard at the sudden recollection of his dead lover. “His skin was as smooth as silk.”

  It was as Thomas thought. “So can you tell me if you have seen this before?” He bent down and produced the alum block from his bag.

  Moreno frowned. “No, sir, I have not,” he replied. “But I believe it is something barbers use.”

  Thomas nodded. “You are right, sir, but I found it in Signor Cappelli’s room. Can you think why that should be?”

  The Tuscan shook his head. “No, I cannot.”

  “And he did not visit a barber when he came to London?”

  “Why would he? He had all his own powders and pomades. He took great pride in seeing to his own wig and—” Moreno suddenly stopped midsentence.

  “What is it, sir?” pressed Thomas.

  The Tuscan turned his head to face him. “I recall he complained of a toothache the day after we arrived in London.” His features suddenly became animated. “We were rehearsing with Herr Haydn, but Signor Cappelli could not concentrate. He was in too much pain.”

  “And?”

  “And Herr Haydn recommended his barber. He said he was good at pulling teeth and a great deal more besides.”

  Thomas felt his own heart hammering inside his chest. This could be the breakthrough he needed. Were his suspicions about to be confirmed? “Can you recall the name of the barber?”

  Moreno closed his eyes, deep in thought. “He was French,” he said finally. “Dubois. His name was Dubois.”

  Thomas found Smee’s Hotel almost deserted. It was midafternoon and there was no one to greet guests. He wandered unheeded into the bar. It smelled of tobacco smoke and stale beer. From the taproom beyond he could hear the sound of a pump and he knew she must be there. There was only one other drinker, and he was distinctly the worse for wear. He was asleep, his matted head resting on the sticky table, a half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow. By the looks of him Thomas guessed he had been imbibing for many hours. He took a seat at a settle in the dingy corner and wait
ed. A few moments later Marie Dubois came into view and headed toward him to take his order, but it was only when she was standing close to him as he sat that he lifted his gaze.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, fixing the girl straight in the eye.

  Marie, her long black hair swept off her face and piled medusa-like on the top of her head, let out an involuntary bleat, like a sacrificial lamb. Quickly she turned to see if anyone had seen the encounter. They were alone, save for the slumbering drunkard.

  “I do not understand you, sir,” she replied breathlessly, picking up an empty pewter tankard from the next table.

  “I think you do, Marie,” insisted Thomas. “What was your brother doing in Signor Cappelli’s room?”

  An expression of panic flashed across her face and the tankard she was holding clattered to the floor. “How do you . . . ?” she blurted.

  “Did he bring the alum block? Or was it your father?” pressed Thomas, still looking at her intently. “How much did Carrington pay him for the larynx?” He was bombarding her with accusations like grapeshot, but they were wounding her more than he dared hope. Her eyes darted hither and thither and her breath came in short, sharp rasps. “’Tis over, Marie. Carrington is dead. ’Tis over for you, your brother, your father. . . .”